But she would never confide in Caroline. Or expose Mr. Darcy’s intimate revelations—even if they had been made so long ago. Instead, Elizabeth stood slowly and said, “I am not seeking a husband. I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.”
Elizabeth would have said more, but suddenly Caroline’s face transformed—the cold, hard glint in her eye melted away. Her smile grew wider and girlish, and she placed a bejeweled hand delicately against her heart. She looked behind Elizabeth and exclaimed, “Mr. Darcy! We were just speaking of you.”
10
Darcy
I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry.
Darcy froze, feeling as if he had just overheard a private conversation—one he desperately wished he had heard in its entirety. Caroline stared up at him, fluttering her lashes and he tried to quiet the unease unfolding inside him.
He had come to Netherfield to speak to Elizabeth. Instead, Caroline had cornered him in a room a mere hour after he had arrived. She had spoken more forcefully and forthrightly than he had ever imagined. And when he had refused her request, she had not thrown a fit. She had not cried or been angry or even embarrassed. She had simply smiled a content, catlike grin and let him walk out the door.
Now, more than anything, Caroline’s complete and utter composure gave him pause. Even as Elizabeth Allerton seemed to be on the verge of losing her composure entirely.
Elizabeth turned and stared into his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he might think she was grief-stricken. Some wild ocean of feeling surfaced there, her chest was heaving (he tried in vain not to notice), and all he wanted to do was calm her—
“Hullo, Mrs. Allerton! Mrs. Doughton!” Darcy turned to find Mr. Gladwell grinning and bowing and completely insensate to the tension in the air.
In the billiards room after dinner, Mr. Darcy had been forced to listen to Mr. Gladwell speak of having seen the actor Edmund Kean. It was thirty minutes of Darcy’s life he would never recover. Darcy had hoped it would be the last time he need speak to the man for any length of time. At first, Mr. Darcy was immediately annoyed that the young fop had followed him here and wished to speak with him further.
Then Darcy realized the coxcomb wanted to speak to Elizabeth, and he moved beyond annoyance to fury. He knew his reaction was all out of proportion, but Darcy also felt in his bones that something was amiss: Elizabeth’s anguish, Caroline’s content, conniving smile…and now Mr. Gladwell and his bouncing blond curls.
“Mr. Gladwell,” Elizabeth said stiffly. “Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied slightly, but did not look at either one of them. “Excuse me, I must find my sister.”
And then she was gone.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Gladwell said, turning to Caroline. “Mrs. Allerton seems quite upset.”
Caroline shrugged delicately. “Perhaps you can assist her in finding Mrs. Bingley? I am sure that will help alleviate whatever concerns her.”
Mr. Gladwell smiled as if this were the most brilliant suggestion in the world. “I should be honored to do so! Excuse me.” He bowed with a fervor that Darcy imagined even Edmund Kean might admire. And while Darcy was glad to not have to speak with Mr. Gladwell, too late he realized he was alone, again, with Caroline.
“Mr. Darcy,” Caroline said, coming to stand next to him. “You gave me no answer, earlier.”
Darcy resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. His father had drilled it into his brain, from a young age: never let your business relations or enemies see if they affect you.
But when did Caroline become my enemy?
That was ridiculous. She was just…misguided. And it would do neither her nor him any good if he put off this discussion further. But still—to have it here, in the open.
“I believe I did give you an answer, and—”
“Darcy! Caro! There you two are.” Charles Bingley fairly danced over, his cheeks pink from drink and a huge smile on his face. He dragged his wife along, though Jane Bingley looked decidedly more sober and more worried. “We are all together again, are we not? This is a happy day. Or night. I suppose it is evening, really. Getting late, actually—but no matter! It is a happy time and I cannot thank you enough for coming, Darcy.”
Bingley clapped him on the shoulder and Darcy felt his friend’s weight for a moment as he steadied himself.
“A bit too much brandy, old friend?” Darcy said, thankful that he could focus on Charles instead of Caroline.
“Mr. Potter insisted, I’m afraid. In fact, if you don’t save me, I think he’ll keep me up all night, drinking.” Bingley leaned in, believing himself to be whispering but actually speaking quite loudly. “He’ll do anything to keep from joining his wife, I think. She’s quite the—”
“Mr. Bingley!” Jane squeaked. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, you must help us. I am afraid that Mrs. Potter is not amused by my conversational abilities.”
“Or your mother’s,” Charles added cheerfully. “Or your sisters’!”
“Thank you, darling,” Jane said, giving him an exasperated glare. “She wants to speak of the theater, or something cultured, but I have not seen many plays this season.”
Darcy could not help the grin that spread across his face. “Why, Mr. Gladwell was just speaking at length of his admiration for certain actors. Perhaps he could assist you? And your sister, Charles—I know she’s always at the height of fashion.”
Caroline struggled not to glare at him now, but Darcy merely sketched a bow. “Mrs. Bingley, why not have Caroline assist you? Charles and I will go find Mr. Gladwell and send him to you.”
“That is brilliant. Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Jane said breathlessly. She lowered her voice, “And perhaps you might also order Mr. Bingley some tea? Just to help him…stand upright?”
“I shall do my best,” Darcy said, bowing once more to the ladies and then dragging Charles toward the doors.
But first, he would find Mr. Gladwell and make sure he was nowhere near Elizabeth.
“That man is an idiot,” Darcy found himself muttering.
He and Bingley had discovered Mr. Gladwell loitering near the stairs that led to the second floor. The young man had eagerly greeted them, saying Caroline had ordered him to find Mrs. Allerton, but he couldn’t, and he did not wish to offend either woman…
Darcy had cheerfully told him that Mrs. Potter had requested he tell her all about Edmund Keen, and every other actor the young man had ever heard of. He’d scurried off to join the rest of the party, leaving Bingley and Darcy to retreat to Charles’ study.
It was a masculine space, with a large desk in the corner and a grouping of comfortable, leather chairs near the fireplace.
“I’m sorry, old friend, what did you say?” Bingley was pouring more drinks from a decanter the footman had delivered. Charles turned ’round, his cheeks pink from drink, his eyes happy and unshadowed. How Darcy envied him.
What a lovely, wicked twist of fate: that he should envy the man who used to follow him around like a puppy, who used to idolize every decision he made.
And Darcy was surprised to find that he truly meant it; he was happy to be envious of Bingley. He was not bitter to find their roles reversed. Indeed, if anything, he himself deserved it. He’d almost ruined a true friend’s happiness.
He had been—arrogant. Wrong. Prideful to a fault.
“Darcy?”
“Nothing,” Darcy said, settling into one of the chairs near the grate.
Charles grinned and shrugged, handing Darcy a drink and taking a seat across from him.
“It’s good to see you, Darcy. It’s truly good to have you here at Netherfield. Why, if it weren’t for you, I’d never have found the place!”
“Enough, enough,” Darcy said, trying to hide his smile. Bingley had been proclaiming the same sentiment for the last ten minutes. Darcy raised his glass and toasted to his friend’s health and fortune.
“Deuce it all, you won’t tell me where you’ve gotten this amazing French stuff from?” Bingley said. “You’re
not a spy now or something? Is that what you’ve spent the last years doing away from London?”
Darcy truly laughed now. “I’m a landowner, not a spy. It’s quite tedious, really. I spend my days overseeing Pemberley and the family accounts. My cousin Fitzwilliam, however…”
Bingley gaped. “Oh, he’s the spy!”
“No. But Fitzwilliam was overseas for a good many years. I never asked how he used to show up with cases of fine French wine and brandy, but I didn’t object, either.”
“Ah, Fitzwilliam. He was the devil with cards. Is he home now?”
Darcy nodded. “At his parents’ estate, at any rate. His leg is a bit worse for the wear. Took a bullet that festered. But he’s surprisingly well.” Darcy wasn’t quite sure if he should mention the fact that his sister was apparently in love with their cousin, but Bingley brought up Georgiana on his own.
“Deuce,” Bingley muttered. “How is Georgiana? We were all so blasted sad to hear about Gloucester. To lose a husband when one is so young. It’s tragic.” His melancholy expression was tempered slightly by a drunken belch.
Darcy took another drink rather than answer immediately. The liquid burned going down, but not as much as seeing Elizabeth Bennet’s—Allerton’s; he could not become accustomed to her married name—anguished eyes just moments ago.
“Georgiana is—” Darcy had been about to say that she was as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. He would do as he always had: hide her pain, and her recent joy, and his cousin Fitzwilliam’s love. Everything must appear proper. Georgiana had to finish mourning. She had to keep up appearances.
She was a Darcy, after all.
It wasn’t the French spirits that loosened his tongue, however. It wasn’t the lateness of the evening, or his exhaustion from a day of travel. Darcy wasn’t quite sure why he felt open. Why he felt like telling Charles the truth, without a polish.
A momentary vision of Elizabeth at dinner appeared in his mind, her skin golden under the candlelight, as golden and glowing as the drink he swirled in his glass.
“Actually, Georgiana is quite fine,” he said stiffly. “She’s in love.”
Bingley turned, his mouth agog. “What did say you?”
“With Fitzwilliam.”
“Fitzwilliam! Your cousin?” If possible, his eyes grew wider. “I say, man. That’s not—that’s not at all what I expected. I thought she would be in mourning.”
Darcy stretched his legs out and leaned his head back against the comfortable cushions. “She is, as far as anyone else knows. I’d ask you to keep this in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
Across from him, Bingley crossed his ankles, his long legs pointing toward the fireplace. It was an unconscious pose that Charles always had fallen into, even back as a young lad in school. For a moment, Darcy felt his heart stutter at the sight. How long it had been since he’d sat in comfortable chairs with an old friend, with someone he could trust and open his heart to?
Or, a part of his heart.
Bingley didn’t know the real reason Darcy had finally accepted his friend’s invitation to Netherfield. Charles had reached out many times over the years, and Darcy had politely rejected him. Even if he told himself it wasn’t rejection. Even if he told himself he had too many responsibilities, that he couldn’t take the time…
Had he been afraid of seeing her?
Hearing about her?
Of watching Elizabeth, in love with her husband?
And now she was a widow. When he’d first heard the news, Darcy had imagined her mourning for her late husband. He’d told himself not to hope. But then his sister had utterly surprised him. What if Elizabeth’s marriage hadn’t been perfect? What if she—what if she hadn’t found happiness? He didn’t pride himself on his thoughts: Perhaps she had an unhappy marriage. No, he would never wish that on her. He would never wish her a cruel husband, or an unhappy life. But, perhaps her husband was the dullest man in England and had preferred grouse shooting to lovemaking and she deserved so much more…
Perhaps…perhaps one day she would be open to marrying again.
God, he was an idiot.
Darcy returned his attention to Bingley, who was observing him with a confused look on his face. Despite years having passed and his hair having grown a bit thinner, the man still had his boyish good looks and openness. What a wonder.
Darcy felt old and jaded and…almost dead inside.
Until he’d seen Elizabeth. Blast her dress, and the curves they’d revealed. He’s lost all ability to think upon seeing her again. And blast the luck, to have Elizabeth stand directly outside the parlor. And blast Caroline the most, for her ceaseless machinations. That woman had inherited every conniving, Machiavellian instinct that her and Charles’ father had possessed.
As Caroline herself had whispered tonight, It is a pity I am only a woman.
Though she hadn’t meant that statement entirely. She’d run her hands along her hips and décolleté, trying to draw his eyes to what she offered.
“Darcy, you alright there?”
Darcy blinked. “Sorry, Charles. Apparently I’ve been huddled up at Pemberley for too long, on my own. I’m a deuced poor houseguest.”
Bingley smiled. “I can’t imagine anyone being ‘huddled’ in Pemberley. It’s the grandest estate I’ve ever seen! And now that I own a home of my own, I am in awe of your ability to handle it. Especially when you were given the reins at such a young age.”
Darcy smiled kindly. If he didn’t know Bingley better, he’d think the man was flattering him. But the earnest smile and his unshadowed blue eyes said otherwise. Really, the entire history of their friendship said otherwise.
“It isn’t easy, is it? But Charles, you’ve done remarkably. I remember the grounds when you first let Netherfield. You’ve made improvements all over the eastern borders. And the—”
“No, no, we shan’t talk of farming now!” Bingley protested, laughing and raising his drink. “Tell me of this Georgiana scandal—no, I meant to say situation. No scandal, of course. And of why you have finally come to Netherfield, after years of rejecting my very finely worded invitations. It was certainly not to inspect the hedges.”
Darcy shared a wry grin with Charles, realizing that for the first time in his life he hadn’t felt that bone-chilling fear when the word “scandal” was mentioned. After his parents had died too young, he’d been put in charge of Pemberley’s vast estates and businesses—and had almost lost them all. An unscrupulous lawyer had tried to swindle a great deal of money from him. He’d caught the liar, but it had been so close. So very close.
And then Wickham had seduced his sister when she was but a child. Again, if Darcy hadn’t discovered their plans to run away together, she would have been lost. The elopement ruining her life, the scandal ruining her name. The Darcy name.
What had he feared more? It was a hard question.
But the fear of scandal had ridden him, harder and faster than he’d ever driven any stallion. And so when he had first met Elizabeth Bingley, when he had first realized she had a fire in her eyes, in her soul—and when he had first seen her family, and realized they were all inappropriate, unworthy, scandalous—
He had known it could not be.
He was devoted to the Darcy name. And no scandal would ever touch it.
Of course, he was not evil. When he’d realized that George Wickham was likely targeting Elizabeth’s younger sister, Darcy had informed Wickham’s commanders in the militia. Wickham had been sent far, far north, under the watchful eye of an experienced, battle-hardened commander who would either transform the man into a model soldier, or more likely, ship him overseas.
But not before Darcy had one last meeting with him.
Last Darcy had heard—he had men investigate and submit twice-yearly reports—Wickham now resided along the northern border of Scotland, with a wife and three children, and a father-in-law who kept an eye on the lad.
So, he had saved hi
s sister from scandal. And perhaps Lydia Bennet, as well. The fears he held as a young man were not the same ones he now carried. Wasn’t loneliness worse than any scandal?
And even if he could never be friends—or more—with Elizabeth Allerton, Darcy could, he realized suddenly, be a true friend with Charles Bingley.
“I visited Georgiana and expected to find my sister quite wilted in her grief.” Darcy forced himself to meet Bingley’s eyes. “But she was not. In fact, she informed me that her husband—her perfect match, in Society’s eyes—had never made her happy. He had been drab and dull and lifeless, and she had been withering, instead, in her marriage.”
Bingley shook his head, listening quietly.
“Of course, I felt it all my fault—”
“Darcy, no!”
“But I did. I found Gloucester and thrust him in her path. I looked into the man and found him perfect, according to the books. And I apparently was not the sort of brother who would have allowed Georgiana to feel free to discuss her feelings with me. To feel at ease to tell me that she did not love Gloucester, but loved another. That she and Fitzwilliam had had an affection for each other, for years.”
Bingley snorted, then stood to get the decanter. He filled Darcy’s glass to the brim.
“Do you hear what you’re saying? You can’t carry the blame for everything. Fitzwilliam could have spoken up. He’s an adult, and a damn Colonel. If he wanted to marry her, he should have said so.”
“He’s a second son. He felt he had no choice…”
Bingley waved the excuse away with his hand. “You carry far too great a burden on your shoulders, old friend. You blame yourself for trying to separate Jane and me—no, don’t deny it—I know you do. But Darcy, you came to me and admitted what you’d done, and why. That’s a rare friend who can do so. It’s why we invited you to the wedding. Yes, I was mad and churlish at first. My back was up about it all, but I was young and stupid. Weren’t we all?”
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